Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Galeana
This can’t be real. It feels like I’ve stumbled into someone else’s nightmare, waiting for the moment I’ll finally wake up.
One moment, I was sitting at the marble island, eating leftover wedding cake and teasing Ledger about something I can’t even remember. The next? Boom.
My world split apart, shattered, and now I’m on the other side of the country, in a place that doesn’t feel like mine.
My mind refuses to grasp it, as if there’s an impenetrable barrier keeping the truth at bay, preventing it from fully settling in.
On the flight here, Ledger said something about trauma—about how sometimes, when something terrible happens, your brain shuts down in self-defense. It’s like flipping a breaker when the power surge is too much to handle. He called it emotional numbness, and it made sense in a clinical way. But now? Now I understand it in a way I wish I didn’t.
I can’t react because it’s too big. Too overwhelming. My mind just won’t let me touch it, as though the sheer enormity of what’s happened will crush me if I do.
Instead, I’m here, feeling . . . nothing. No sadness, no fear, not even anger—just an empty, hollow void where emotions should be.
Maybe that’s the most unsettling part. Not the explosion, not the house reduced to ashes, but the eerie detachment that leaves me feeling like a stranger in my own life, adrift and disconnected.
Ledger’s words replay in my mind: “It’s normal. Your brain is shielding you. When you’re ready, the reality will catch up—and I’ll be right here to hold you.”
But what if I don’t want it to catch up?
What if I’m not ready to face it?
What if, when it does, I shatter into pieces I can never put back together?
I twist the hem of the oversized sweater they handed me before taking off, the soft fabric brushing against my fingers, but it does nothing to steady the storm swirling inside me. The elevator doors close behind me with a quiet hum, leaving me standing in the entryway of Ledger’s place.
The swanky glass-and-iron space feels like a fishtank—wide open and glaringly exposed. I stare at the skyline beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, its reflection shimmering in the polished surfaces around me. It looks like a backdrop to someone else’s story, someone else’s disaster. Because this can’t be mine. Can it?
It’s all an illusion. That’s what I tell myself. Some elaborate trick my brain is playing on me because the alternative—that this actually happened to me—is too much.
My breath hitches, and I blink hard, trying to will the tears stinging my eyes to stay put. Crying won’t help. Feeling won’t help.
The worst part? Ledger is fine. Unshaken. Perfect, even.
When he opens the door and gestures me inside, it feels like stepping into a completely different world—a realm of polished modernity that gleams with clean lines and smooth edges. It’s worlds away from the grand, historical charm of the Doherty mansion. The shift is jarring, leaving me slightly off balance, like I’ve crossed into someone else’s reality. I’ve been thrust into a future that doesn’t belong to me.
The space is expansive, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of Seattle’s skyline. The city lights shimmer against the glass like scattered stars, and in the distance, the Space Needle stands illuminated, casting a quiet glow over the horizon.
Everything about this place speaks of luxury: the polished hardwood floors, the minimalist furniture that looks curated down to the last detail, and the enormous sectional couch that seems more like a design statement than something to relax on.
Ledger shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it onto the couch. “Make yourself at home,” he says. “Teddy will bring some clothes for you later today.”
“Teddy?” is all I manage to ask.
“Yeah, the woman who owns the concierge place. She’s very efficient and the business is open twenty-four-seven,” he explains.
I nod because I don’t know what else to do. Of course it’s that Teddy, but my brain is in shock so remembering her is almost impossible. I’m definitely not myself. Words feel too heavy, too flimsy. But inside, my thoughts churn in frantic circles, fixating on a single, ridiculous question I can’t bring myself to ask.
Did they save the boxes in the basement?
It presses on my mind, unyielding and impossible to ignore, drowning out everything else. Of all the things I could focus on— should focus on—that’s what sticks. My boxes. Most of my life is packed away in cardboard, untouched since the day I moved to Birchwood Springs. I can still hear Aiden’s laugh when she noticed, the teasing cadence in her voice when she called me ridiculous. I told her the truth: until the lawyer handed me the papers, the house wasn’t mine. Not really. And now, it never will be.
The thought feels too big, too overwhelming, so I cling to the boxes instead. Those little pieces of me, still waiting in the basement—are they even there?
They have to be. They’re all I have left of Mom.
I’m praying, silently, desperately, that her diaries and photos are safe. That’s all that matters. Those boxes hold the pieces of her I can still touch, still see. Everything else could burn, and I wouldn’t care.
“Here, drink this.” Ledger’s voice breaks through the haze, and I blink as he presses a steaming mug of tea into my hands. I hadn’t even realized I was sitting. One second, I was pacing, thoughts spiraling, and now it’s as if my legs are rooted to the couch, too heavy to move.
“Thank you,” I mumble, my voice coming out quieter than I intended. “I don’t even remember sitting down.”
“That’s called dissociation,” he says simply, lowering himself into the chair across from me. His tone is calm, matter-of-fact, but his eyes are locked on me, scanning my face like he’s trying to figure out just how bad this is.
“Dissociation,” I repeat, my fingers curling tighter around the mug. The warmth seeps into my palms, but it does nothing to ease the tremble in my hands.
“It’s when you feel disconnected from your thoughts,” he explains, his voice steady but soft, like he’s trying not to spook me. He leans back slightly, giving me space, but his eyes never leave mine. “It’s normal, given everything you’ve been through. You’re trying to protect yourself from everything that transpired.”
I nod slowly, though his words feel distant, like they’re floating in the air between us.
“I was talking to Mal on the plane earlier,” he continues, shifting his tone to something more practical, more grounding. “He said he’d send over some names and numbers for local therapists. People who specialize in . . . this kind of thing.” He pauses, studying my face. “But only if you’re ready. No pressure.”
There’s something in the way he says it—gentle, careful—that stirs something uncomfortably deep inside me. He’s giving me a choice: I can brush off the help and keep sinking, or I can take a step forward, even if I’m not sure I’m ready for it.
I glance at him, my emotions caught somewhere between gratitude and annoyance. I know what dissociation is. I know I’m not okay. I don’t need a lecture spelling it out, not now. But I also know he’s trying. He’s here, sitting with me, offering tea and therapist suggestions instead of turning away or pretending everything’s fine. It’s more than most people would do, and that realization leaves me feeling something I can’t quite name.
The truth is, I have no idea how I’m still standing—or if I even am.
“Thanks for the tea,” I mumble, the words feeling obligatory, like I need to say something, anything, to fill the silence.
Ledger doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he studies me, his expression unreadable, the kind of quiet that feels heavier than words. For a moment, it’s like he sees straight through me—all the things I’m trying so hard not to feel, laid bare under his gaze.
“You don’t have to talk about it, you know. Not until you’re ready.”
His words hang in the air, but I can’t bring myself to meet them. The truth is, the explosion is still rattling through me, like an aftershock I can’t escape. Every loud noise makes me flinch. Every sudden movement sends my nerves sparking like frayed wires.
And I hate it.
I hate the way it’s taken over, creeping into every quiet moment like an unwelcome guest. I hate that my home—the one place that was supposed to finally be mine—was ripped away from me in an instant.
“I’m sorry,” Ledger says suddenly, his voice low, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“For what?” I ask, blinking at him.
“For all of it,” he says, his gaze unwavering. “The house. The explosion. You losing . . . everything.”
His words hit something deep inside me, and for a second, I can’t breathe. Because as much as I want to tell him it’s fine, that I’ll be okay, the truth is, I’m not sure I will be.
“Gale,” Ledger says.
I flinch at the sound of his voice, hating the way it startles me, and force myself to turn around. “Sorry,” I mutter, crossing my arms tightly over my chest.
“Don’t apologize,” he says, his voice steady and calm, but there’s something in his eyes—something softer than I’m used to seeing. “You’ve been through a lot.”
“You too. You were there. Something could’ve happened to you,” I mumble, my voice shaky.
“But it didn’t.”
“Why are you so calm?” I swallow hard, the lump in my throat refusing to budge. “I just . . . I don’t understand why this happened.”
Ledger shifts closer to me, the sofa dipping slightly under his weight. He takes the mug from my trembling hands without a word and sets it gently on the coffee table. His fingers graze mine as he pulls my hands into his own, his touch warm, grounding. My hands are shaking, and I hate it—hate how fragile I feel.
“Why did it happen?” I repeat, my voice breaking on the question.
“Mal’s working on it,” he says quietly, his grip firm but not constricting, his thumbs brushing over my knuckles in slow, deliberate movements. “We’ll get answers, Gale. But right now, you’re safe. That’s what matters.”
Safe.
The word feels foreign, distant—like something from a language I no longer understand. Like a promise I can’t bring myself to believe anymore.
“I don’t feel safe,” I admit, my voice barely audible.
Ledger’s jaw tightens before he speaks. “I know it doesn’t feel like it now,” he pauses, his eyes locking onto mine with a quiet intensity, as if he’s willing me to believe him, “but I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. And I promise—nothing’s going to happen to you. Not while I’m here.”
He hesitates, like he’s searching for the right words, then adds, “You’re stronger than you think. You’ll get through this. I know you will.”
I shake my head, my chest tightening. “Why are you so calm?” I ask, staring at him as if his certainty can somehow answer all the questions swirling in my mind. “How can you be so sure?”
Something shifts in his eyes, a flicker of emotion from a place he keeps locked away, surfacing just long enough to make my pulse stutter.
“My dad,” he begins, his voice raw and uneven, like he’s dragging the words from a place he never visits. “He wasn’t a nice man. A functional alcoholic—that’s what they call it, I think. Or something like that. The label doesn’t matter. What matters is he was always angry. To him, we were nothing but a pack of idiots destined to fail. That’s all he ever saw in us.”
His jaw tightens, and his gaze drops for a moment before he continues. “And at night, when he was really drunk, he’d find ways to take it out on us. Sometimes, it felt like I was going to die. Other times . . .” His voice falters, a bitter edge slipping in. “I prayed he’d just kill me, just to get it over with.”
He exhales shakily, his fingers curling into fists before relaxing again. “Now, I work hard to be different. To not become him.”
The words hang between us, raw and unfiltered, heavy enough to make the air feel suffocating. I can’t breathe, can’t reconcile the man in front of me—the controlled, composed presence—with the boy he just described. It’s like staring at two completely different people, and the weight of his past presses into the room, demanding to be acknowledged.
“Ledger . . .” I whisper, my hands tightening around his without realizing it.
He meets my gaze head-on, unwavering. “I learned something during those nights,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “Even when everything’s falling apart—even when you’re certain it’ll break you—you can survive. You just have to hold on, no matter how impossible it feels, until the storm passes.”
Without thinking, I reach up, my fingers grazing his jaw. The rough scrape of his stubble meets my touch, pulling me into the moment. “You’re not him,” I whisper, my voice steadier than it’s been all night. “You know that, don’t you?”
A small, humorless smile flickers at the corner of his mouth. “I’d like to think I’ve worked hard not to be him. But sometimes . . .” He trails off, his gaze dropping to where our hands are still tangled together. “Sometimes, I wonder if the damage he did is still in me. If it’ll ever go away. That’s why I choose not to get attached to anyone.”
It’s so clear in his voice, I can hear the loneliness. I shift closer, the space between us shrinking as I look up at him. “You’re not him, Ledger,” I repeat one more time. “You couldn’t be.”
He just stares at me, his gaze holding mine, an intensity lingering in the silence. In his eyes, I see it—the burden of his past, the cracks he hides from everyone else. Then he exhales, the tension in his shoulders loosening slightly, as if he’s finally releasing something he’s been carrying for too long.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable.
I don’t know what comes over me. Maybe it’s the way his words linger, charged with a rare vulnerability, or the way his presence makes the impossible feel almost survivable. Before I can stop myself, I lean forward, my forehead gently coming to rest against his shoulder.
He doesn’t pull away.
Instead, his arm wraps around me, pulling me closer, and everything changes. The ice in my chest, the suffocating chill that’s gripped me all night, begins to melt. His warmth seeps into me, breaking through the walls I didn’t even know I’d built, unraveling the tight, aching tension caging my ribs.
For the first time since it all happened, I can breathe.
Safe .
The word whispers through my mind, quiet but unyielding.
Safe. With him.
I shift slightly, my cheek brushing against his shoulder, and then I tilt my head, my lips barely grazing the side of his neck. He stiffens for a fraction of a second—so brief I almost miss it—before turning his head to look at me, his gaze locking onto mine.
And that’s when it happens.
I kiss him.
It’s tentative at first, just a brush on lips, soft and searching, but it’s enough to send a jolt through me. A jolt of something I haven’t felt in so long I almost don’t recognize it.
Alive. Real. Ours.
It doesn’t feel like we’re pretending. This time it feels like an us.
His hand moves to my cheek, his touch firm but not rough, tilting my face toward him. There’s no hesitation in his movements, no second-guessing. His lips capture mine, purposeful and commanding, leaving no room for doubt. The world blurs, the chaos fades, and all I can focus on is him—his warmth, his strength, the way he kisses me like he’s meant to. Like he’s taking all the broken pieces and making them his.
My fingers find the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric as if holding on, because the world tilts slightly. The sensation is overwhelming but not in a bad way—it’s steadying, pulling me out of the haze of everything that’s happened tonight and into this moment. Into him.
His thumb brushes the edge of my jaw, his touch so gentle it makes my breath catch. There’s nothing rushed or desperate about the way he kisses me. It’s deliberate, like he’s pouring every unguarded emotion into it, a language I can’t articulate but feel deep in my core.
Safe.
Warm.
Alive.
When we finally pull apart, his forehead rests against mine, his breath warm against my skin. His eyes search mine, and for a second, neither of us speaks.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, his voice rough but steady.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I believe it. I believe that someone has me.
Right now I don’t feel lonely.